Discard The Queen of Clubs
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Tramp.Whore.Slut.Even though he had since abandoned those titles in action, they were still tossed around mostly behind his back—once in a while to his face by those who found it impossible that he’d actually settled.


_**A/N: Not sure if this makes total sense or not. I haven't slept tonight…so…just saying. I tried to go over spelling errors but if there are some please excuse them, due to lack of sleep. Had a bad night. So angsty Cody decided to throw this out here. ONESHOT. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE TITLE MEANS. IT JUST…Yeah.**_

_Tramp._

_Whore._

_Slut._

The words split through his mind as he curled in bed, shrouded in white linen sheets, eyes moving behind closed lids but not sleeping. No, not sleeping, just thinking of all the haunting things that tormented him on nights such as this when he couldn't seem to turn off his mind and slip into dark hibernation. Even though he had since abandoned those titles in action, they were still tossed around mostly behind his back—once in a while to his face by those who found it impossible that he'd actually settled. After all, his sexual escapades and prowess had been as fabled as or maybe more so than Jeff Hardy, who had once been his prime competition.

The only thing was, no one ever understood Cody, and that was what he wanted from them most. The sex was just a means at getting to that point, although it never seemed to work. Somewhere along the way he'd been labeled as the one to go to for a good blow job or fuck, just because he'd been somewhat promiscuous in his pursuits. He became enthralled in his role, wrapped up in the attention he so craved, even if only for a night, an hour, a few minutes on his knees on cold tiles. Those moments held in strong arms, sealed to passionate lips, lost in physical bliss, were the closest he could seem to get to being wanted. After, he would hope to be asked to stay overnight, to talk, to cuddle, maybe even a date—but each time resulted in the consequence of devastation as he was either kicked from the room he was visiting or left alone in his own.

Sometimes it became so bad that he'd begged, cried, for someone to stay, and many times confused eyes would roam over his face, as words tried to reach him that there was nothing there but a good time, a quick fix for an irritating boner, a romp with a good boy and nothing more.

Pretty soon, the piled up rejections became depression, masked by increased flirting and more and more partners to try and cover the pain until he couldn't remember who he'd slept with or sucked, the list of those he hadn't being far shorter yet names being just as elusive when he tried to conjure them. He turned no one away, no request was too bizarre, too rough, too much, or enough. None of it filled the hollowness, just left him limping and whimpering after long nights, throwing up a gutful of mingled seed, and feeling as disgusting and used as a discarded tampon.

Even his best friend Ted had used him, and then deserted him with a grimace when he proclaimed that he no longer knew who his childhood friend was, just the locker room whore, and that he did not want to be associated with that kind of person. Even his own brother, a man who was not unfamiliar with a plethora of oddness, had disowned him hissing in low tones about how ashamed their father would be if he ever found out what his sons legacy really was.

His life became full of nothing but agonizing lows, ring work suffering, as though he really cared about it any more. It was only due to his fathers' haggling that he still had a job, most likely, which amounted to jobbing to nobodies in dark matches and house shows. How things had gotten so bad, he did not understand. He only wanted someone to cling to, the way Punk hung blushing and grinning from the arm of his doting Texan, or the way Paul could still be found holding Chris, even after the cocky Canadian threw a childish tantrum, the way Hunter caressed Shawns' back after a grueling match and smiled softly as he laced his fingers through his partners thinning hair, the way Matt held Jeff and kissed his pierced lips, never ashamed, even though they were brothers. Yet he seemed to be good enough for no one.

He'd starred into mirrors, wondering if it was his face that made him undesirable as partner, or maybe it was his lisp. Maybe it was how his legs curved girlishly, maybe his flaw was his tend towards being 'nerdy' that made potential lovers pass over, maybe it was something everyone else could see, and he couldn't. Maybe it didn't matter anymore, and maybe Cody Rhodes was just meant to be alone, a physical thing to be taken, a heart to be left cold and numb, a soul left hollow and solitary.

But then, some one had noticed his pain. Randy with his glowing, silvery eyes, his smug mouth in a tight line, had looked upon him and held him one night when he was on the verge of giving up entirely. He seemed to wrap Cody under his tattooed wing so to speak, and shield him from stalking predators who wanted only to pin him and dine their fill. He took Cody out with him, sporting the young man on his arm and defending him when someone tried to get too fresh, encroaching upon the Vipers' new territory. He held his new prize close, coiled around him and hissing, spitting venom, at anyone who even dared to blink at the ex-sex symbol in a remotely inappropriate way. The attention was amazing, quickly lifting Cody from the depths of his despair and sending his emotions to a different stretch of the roller coaster—the highest peak where excitement is paramount—the rush of adrenaline pumping fiery through veins—as colorful pennants wave triumphantly against the sky, proclaiming you are higher than you'll ever be again.

Proof of such high was made clear only days ago, when the boy had got it in his mind to face his father and come out with the relationship, to which he knew the end would not be well. When his father and mother disowned him, he didn't let any tears fall to show he was wounded. He just tilted his chin up and walked away, reminding himself that what was waiting in the hotel room was worth any other sacrifice he might be forced to make. And now, here he was with the man who made it all okay, who made his life valuable, his time worthwhile, his actions meaningful, his emotions validated.

When he felt the bed dip, his eyes sprang open, a smile quickly stretching his lips back happily from his teeth. His hands roamed over the tattooed shoulders, and arms that were painstakingly carved by hours at the gym and countless disgusting protein shakes. They slid up the bronzed neck, over a strong smooth, jaw, one going on further to stroke the soft, shaved head. Eyes like faceted, cut, diamonds sparkled in the light and Cody knew he could be lost in them forever—though not really lost but found, because Randy always knew where he was, and always held tight to his hand, to keep him from being rushed away in a river of brokenness.

The familiar, hard, body slipped warmly against his, still damp with clinging beads of water from his customary long shower. The strong, curvy, thighs pressed against the backs of his legs as his painted arms lifted them and his knowing hands caressed, the gentleness always a contradiction to the man who was supposed to be heartless and beastly. A song of lovemaking began, two voices together entwining with needful sounds that one drew from the other, as a hot, throbbing, ember met a tight, warm, response. The whole dance ended in a dizzying peak, the summit of the mountain sheering away as the passion within erupted from great depths, like flowing magma engulfing two undulating bodies.

Sleep drifted over him slowly, now that he belonged to Randy, the feeling was comforting rather than terrifying, knowing that when he opened his eyes in the darkness, his beautiful viper would be circled next to him, the hiss of his breath ghosting softly against his pillow…

The dream had come again, and his eyes fluttered open--

_Tramp._

_Whore._

_Slut!_

His breath hitched in his throat, dousing the cold, lonely room in silence.


End file.
